A sh*tty end to a bad day
There are (very few!) advantages to a polluted beach but one is that I usually find a piece of styrofoam to sit on. I almost wish there was enough of the stuff to carry back to Camp Sh*t—in fact if I was here for the long term I’d be sure to construct something. The nights are surprisingly cold.
At temperatures no lower than 8°C, my sleeping bag should be positively cosy, but it isn’t. I guess the clamyness of the tent is the problem. During the night, I wake up countless times to shiver myself warm again or else to shift my bulk onto a softer roll of fat. At times, the balance is just right and I am about to drift off into blissfull slumber when a lorry thunders past on the road that runs above the campsite and wakes me up—earplugs or not. So I feel like little sleeping actually gets done. I monitor the light and as soon as the tent looks more yellow than grey I check my watch.—It was late! I had to get up like greased lightning to get to the busstop for 9—nearly 12h after I had gone to ‘bed’!
The bus was late which made me fret because it is the only one of its kind for hours. The driver turned out to be the old devil from yesterday and immediately launched into a monologue. I nodded and extended my hand with the exact fare in it. He started jabbering again, pointing at the road ahead and made a circular motion. “Yeah,” I said:”A little detour. I know. Its OK!” He shook his head, muttered to himself and started to drive. Just around the bend he pulled over at a busstop I hadn’t noticed before, opened the doors and waved me outside, indicating I should wait at the other side of the road for his return. So I was left shivering my tits off in the chill morning air for another 15 minutes. It was not a good start to the day. I breathed a sigh of relief when we finally reached Setúbal.
Another thing about Portugal that reminds me of Taiwan: everything gets wrapped in 5 plastic bags. I try to recycle them and my daypack is bulging with them. The woman at the cheesecounter waved a bag at me but I shook my head, pointing at the clear bag with the cheese already in my hand. She shook her head too, called out and pulled at the handles of her bag: mine is not a propper carry bag. I smiled and pointed at my daypack and gave the thumbs up, so she finally shrugged. ‘Crazy foreigners‘, she doubtlessly thought.
So across the road to the supermarket for bottled water. When I reached the counter, after a long wait, the woman at the till hollerd for security and pointed at my bag. She indicated impatiently for me to open it so she coul look inside. Of course it was full of produce because I had just come from the market. A fraccas ensued. Eventually, another woman with a few words of English explained the situation then told me I’ll have to check the bag in with the reception at the corner of the shop in future. Another thing I hadn’t noticed in my four previous shopping trips—God, what a day this was shaping up to be!
At least the ferry crossing to Troía went smoothly. I sat at the tip of Dolphin Bay and stared at the water for over an hour with no sightings when suddenly a tourist boat materialised in front of me: a long, sleek RIB with two massive outboard engines. They driftted for a few minutes, then picked up speed and within seconds had disappeared down to the western tip. A commercial dolphin boat no doubt has hydrophones on board. This meant I was in the wrong location. But by the time I had made my way across to the west beach, there was no sign of either the boat or any dolphins.
At a quarter past twelve I finally spotted an animal heading seawards past the ferrydock—it must have come from the direction of the bay. There was no sight of the tourists, the water was mirror-calm and the dolphins, several now, are close enough for my panorama shot of them surfacing against the backdrop of Setúbal. I raise the camera to my eyes—and out of nowhere the boat roared into view. The dolphins promptly disappeared and resurfaced a long way further seawards. It took the boat three minutes to turn and go after them. Are they blind?
They approached the school at speed, then slowed down and gently drifted around. But the dolphins didn’t surface for some time and kept their distance. They certainly didn’t interact. The boat zig-zagged, then stayed stationary far in the distance. I couldn’t make out the dolphins.
At a quarter to one, the tourists were offloaded at the dock and driven away and the boat crossed the bay back to Setúbal. The estary lay deserted in the midday lull, even by the dolphins. It was 50 minutes since I last saw them. I ate the rest of my ewe’s cheese and chewy bread out of sheer boredom, then at a quarter to two I finally cought a glimpse right at the estuary mouth. The dolphins were heading back in. I hurredly gathered my things but I needn’t have hurried; they took their time. When I finally thought they would come into view near the city backdrop, they turned around again. They remained too far out. This has turned into a gamee of cat-and-mouse. If only I had my shot—I could move on!
By ten to three they were once again tiny specks on the horizon and I was gettng tired of this. The sun was burning down on my head. I’ll give it one more chance tomorrow, then I’ll head straight for Porto, give Lisbon a miss. There is too much bustle for me to deal with right now.
I was exhausted and fed up to the point of tears and therefore felt it psychologically important to return to Camp Sh*t in daylight to see it in a friendlier light. So I caught the 5 o’clock bus. And there, in the light of day, a solution to my problems presented itself: I had walked past the back of the caravans to catch a glimpse of the sunset (it isn’t visible from Camp Sh*t). The trees had steadily shed their leaves over the past few days, even though they get more sunshine here in a week than during an entire Scottish summer, and suddenly it all came together: the weather, the plastic bags and the time of year. I scooped large heaps of the dry, brittle leaveds into a bag and crunched them underneath the groundsheet. Voilá—a sprung mattress! I found a new pair of earplugs, treated myself to stuffed cuttlefish at the snackbar and slept like a baby.
—So it should have ended, but it was not to be. Four hours later I stuck my head out of the tent and puked up my dinner. Less than one hour after that, I got the sh*ts. Did I make it out of the tent in time? I did, but only just. Let’s say that even though I had camped strategically close to the shower block it wasn’t close enough…
Tags: Portugal, Tag Index
Denni